


right down the line

by buscemies



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 10:03:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buscemies/pseuds/buscemies
Summary: Three months after The Third Way, Michael and Trevor make a pit-stop on the LS west-coast.





	right down the line

**Author's Note:**

> recommended listening - [Right Down the Line by Gerry Rafferty ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzSXSo3dTHU)

  
They float down the coast. The little black car goes like a dream, and in the haze of the low evening lights and streaming Los Santos neon they hardly touch the gravel. The air whips by like fingers through his hair. His shirt ripples across his chest as he scans the horizon. The sunset has finally ripped open like an egg yolk, the horizon soaking in wet yellows and slick grapefruit pink.

Beside him Trevor hums under his breath briefly. His aviators are set high on his nose, one hand loose on the wheel. Michael rarely sees him this calm, like his finally settling into his own skin. As they take the highway, the ocean eases up on their side, the water rippling in the colours. They’re meant to be scouting the city for a night out, but Trevor slows at the fork onto a gravel road winding down to the beach.

‘The hell are you doing?’ Michael asks him halfheartedly.

‘Calm down sugartits, it’s just pit stop,’ Trevor glances at him from under his sunglasses, he smirks before turning back to the road. ‘We got all the time in world, Mikey.’

Michael assents with silence, tries to brace all the colours filling up to meet them as they get closer to the beach. The sand is white, and the water a burning red now. It’s something out of an oversaturated 80’s dream; a neon fantasy Michael was too busy dodging bullets to indulge in when it was happening. But it's his now. The money, the cars, the power. And unexpectedly, Trevor, after finally admitting he wants him, needs him.

Trevor pulls the e-brake, the cranking rough over the quiet highway back east, seagulls and murmuring conversation between a couple of passers-by. The water moves rhythmically, the tongue of waves casting forward and withdrawing like silk, the foam drifting and breaking. Michael stretches his neck, takes in a lungful of the sticky, salty air.

‘Alright, T. Give it to me straight,’ Michael sighs, turning toward him briefly. ‘I know you still aren't one for views, and this isn’t the most discreet place to get rid of me so  
unless you've lost your touch; I got no clue why we're here.’

‘Mikey…have I ever,’ Trevor has the grace to look theatrically aghast, ‘…ever, done anything to make you doubt my intentions?’

‘Yeah, every day of my fucking life, I made a list, actually,’ Michael turns to the water again, still too mellow in the fading heat of the day to actually get worked up. There’s contentment under it all; the fact that they deal and play these cards just to entertain themselves, unlike the churlishness that used to drive it all based on years of resentment stacked on top of Michael’s ill-fated, shit-fanned decisions.

‘A-a list? You know, this is exactly the sort of bullshit that this city brings out in people - rules and fucking regulations. Lose sight of what’s fucking important, what’s real!’ Trevor goes on, ‘In the desert, sure there’s mostly tweakers, but at least the fucki-‘

’T, you’re goddamn three seconds from getting your ass kicked.’

‘Sure thing, sugartits,’ he chuckles, planting a firm hand on Michael’s knee and squeezing. It catches him by surprise, kicks a shockwave of anticipation straight to the pit of his gut.

‘Jesus fuckin-‘

‘ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! I was getting to a pertinent point!’ Trevor clears his throat, ‘Lester called.’

‘What?’

‘Ohhhhh…you know Mikey - fat, got beady little pervert eyes, can’t walk, hasn’t been in the sun for decades-‘

Michael sighs and fully turns to Trevor, shifting his hand a little higher in the process. He should have known he was too keyed up for this to go any other way.

‘Gainful employment.’

‘Ah fuck, this again.’

‘What? You content to just rot away driving up and down the fucking coast sugar tits, huh? Doing nothing? With all these cunts around with their eye-finder and phoney scripts, little bitchy dramas.’

‘Yeah! I've got the studio, and the kids,’ he snaps back. 

The truth is, the past three months have been a blur. Since the divorce everything had sort of fallen into place. Gotten right where it needed to be. Sure, there were stints of boredom when Trevor disappeared to go take care of his so-called company in Sandy Shores. But that was nothing to before. It was just punctuation in the long line days and weeks that involved travelling across San Andreas, helping Solomon out, dutifully visiting the kids, and doing recreationally reckless shit with Trevor.

Michael, could probably say his life had finally become that spectacular blur he’d expected when he moved out here in the first place.

‘Tough fucking shit, make a schedule M, this’ll fit right between your binge drinking and midday nap. We got work to do,’ he rolls on, hands gesturing wildly. ‘We’ll be back in a week, right fucking here.’

Trevor whips off his sunglasses, and looks out over the water and the onsetting darkness. The first stars are coming out. Michael's chest tightens thinking about their first night after Luddendorf - a week after they sent Weston crashing into the waves.

‘What the hell is it anyway?’ the niggling sense of curiosity surges up. Some residual guilt he still can’t seem to quash despite finally being forgiven.

‘Now you’re talking! There’s some fruity art coming through a gallery, it’ll sell for five digits here, but for six across the water. We case the place, take what some guy shat on a canvas, Lester flips it and you make it to your fucking lamas class by next Friday.’

‘And fuck you too,’ Michael trails after his insult. 

‘Ahh! Come on, Mikey! We get to screw over a beret-wearing, wine-sniffing asshole and maybe get our hands a little dirty too! Where’s the downside, huh?’

Michael considers the offer in silence. He broods at the setting sun about how much he wants this, but at the same time abhors it beyond words. Maybe it’s just him that’s getting old, but that’s a lie. There are other reasons. Good reasons not to run around like they used to. ‘It ain’t like it used to be, T. It can’t be and you know it.’

Trevor’s eyes darken, and he looks away entirely to his left. The rippling water and the emblazoned sand, the imprints sinking into his vision around Trevor's sillouhette. Even from this angle Michael knows what his thinking, it's not because the no-hum, too good to be true months following the UD job have made them predictable; it's that they're in sync now, like before, thinking the same things. 

It wasn’t about the money. It was the rush, the feeling of being next to each other, working as a team. It was bullets flying, gun oil sooting his hands while he took perfect head-shots and Trevor worked the safes like a fiddle. It was driving the getaway faster than the gauge could read and somehow getting away with it by the next morning.

‘I…’ Michael started, but can’t go on. _I can’t fucking lose you, you dumbass,_ was what he was trying to get at. _I can’t fucking live alone now, this is fucking it, this here._

‘Come on Mikey, we’ve taken a hundred takes. What the fuck is one more. I got your back, you got mine. It’ll be fine - like every other time. Me and you taking them for all they're worth,’ Trevor leans closer, staring at him intently.

He holds Trevor’s eyes hard. Fuck it. ‘Alright T. One last job. Again.’

Suddenly Trevor rushes at him, pressing his lips to Michael’s, his tongue forcing it’s way in; greedy heat, short breaths and a low groan overcoming Michael's senses. The last of the sun’s heat hangs in the air between them as Trevor hops the console, straddling his lap. They don’t quite fit into the passenger seat of a the little sport car. And it’s all nearly too good to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> A brief homage to those gorgeous LS sunsets.  
> PS. I'm rusty as heck please tell me if I made any mistakes.


End file.
